A Year Straight (11 page)

My friend Andie, an only child, was allowed to have eight girls over for the night. Her dad worked for a major record label and thus always had the newest in media technology, including, somehow, a copy of
Gremlins
on VHS the very year it came out. We'd all brought our coolest pajamas for the party:
Flashdance
T-shirts and flannel pants with strawberry or flower prints. We bounced around on the bed, screaming and grabbing each other during the scariest parts of the movie. As soon as the credits were rolling, Andie shut off the movie and put on Madonna's “Like a Virgin” video, of which she also magically had a copy. We started dancing around the room, imitating Madonna's dance moves, rewinding the tape at the end and replaying it repeatedly.

“Let's play married!” Andie said, grabbing another girl. They kissed with closed lips, as if in a film from the thirties. We howled and clapped. Andie's party was the best of the year, and also the last. The following week, one of the nuns (did I mention I went to a Catholic school?) made a phone call to Andie's mother. The school had received a complaint from a girl's parents. Someone at the party had told on us. I will never know whether it was the dirty dancing or the gruesome movie that was deemed the more heinous offense. In either case, there were no more parties at Andie's house.
“I KISSED MY friend in high school, but it was weird,” Annika said.
Oh my God, she is flirting with me.
She touched my shoulder while asking her questions and looked me straight in the eye.
Uh oh.
She was sexy and adorable at the same time, bearing the kind of natural beauty that looks almost alien when enhanced by makeup. And she seemed to know it, her big blue eyes framed only by her platinum blond hair and the slightest hint of mascara. She didn't need lipstick. Her full lips were naturally rosy, so much so that I bet she got annoyed with how red they were all the time. I had a friend like that in college. Her nickname was Rosie because she always had pink cheeks and lips, though she never wore an ounce of makeup. It bothered her, but I'd always been envious of her supposed problem. Like my mom's, my own lips take on a slightly blue hypothermic hue when nude. Thus I inherited my mom's lipstick addiction, too.

I had to pull myself together. But Annika's questions were especially charming when asked in that accent of hers. And then she came closer to whisper in my ear.

“Ehlehnah. Everyone got to kiss but us.”

“Don't worry, we will,” I said with affected conviction. I was accustomed to being courted, femme on the streets and in the sheets. But as Miss Lez, I needed to take charge. Or so I thought. Annika grabbed me and ordered in her German monotone, “Come home to my house with me.”

The women hooted and hollered as Annika and I
ditched the party together. Her long hair brushed my neck as she whipped herself into the cab. I ducked in and she recited her address to the driver. We were Harlem-bound. Harlem was far enough from my house in Brooklyn that I knew I wasn't going to make it home that night. And that was just fine. No part of me was hesitant, getting into the cab with Annika. I didn't have the same little knot in my gut that I'd had with the guys. If anything, in her presence I felt protected. Flying up the Palisades Parkway in our yellow chariot, the snow-covered city was a magical land, lit up by sparkly decorations and infused with holiday cheer. Or maybe it was the champagne.

And then we were kissing. In the cab! I was a little bit embarrassed because I'd never been big on public displays of affection. But I was sure the cabbie had seen it all before, and for that matter, much, much more.

We kissed outside her apartment door and then she unlocked it and pushed me inside. Clothing racks lined the hallways, jammed full of her fashions. It was an endless labyrinth of earth tones, my favorite.
I can't wait to share clothes!
Like mine, her apartment was sweltering.

“I'm sorry it is so hot in here. I have no way to control it,” she said, opening the windows wider.

“Are you kidding? I love it. I'm always cold.”

“Me, too!”

I went into the bathroom and washed my hands with
the same Peaceful Patchouli soap I used at my house. I felt right at home.

Just inside her bedroom door, Annika pulled me toward her bed and we fell onto a mountain of the softest sheets ever, the kind that feel like whipped cream.
Note to self: thread count counts.
And speaking of soft, her skin felt like silk compared to the men I'd been with. Typically the more passive one when in bed with someone new, I leaped out of my comfort zone and on top of her, assuming I would have to lead the way.

“I want to do you,” she said in the same monotone with which she'd given her address to the cab driver. And then she flipped me around, pinning my arms to the bed.

“Are you sure you haven't done this before?” I asked.

The thing about being with women is that it doesn't really matter how much experience either one has under her belt (in Annika's case, none), because what's under her belt is the same as mine. It's much easier to steer the ship when you're familiar with the helm. Needless to say, it was awesome. And then we slept with our arms and legs intertwined.

The next morning I awoke to the sun streaming through the plants hanging in her bedroom window.
I want to wake up here every day.
There were sounds coming from the kitchen. I wrapped myself in a patchwork quilt and headed to the bathroom.

“Good morning. Would you like tea?” Annika asked through the door.

“Yes, please!”

“And use my toothbrush if you don't mind.”

I smiled at myself in the mirror as I brushed my teeth with the familiar flavor of the same fennel toothpaste I used at home. I didn't mind at all sharing her toothbrush. The bristles weren't faded and frayed like the guys' toothbrushes I'd been seeing as of late. How funny, I thought. All of that silly experimentation with men and I found myself back with a girlfriend in the end. (I'd already decided that Annika was mine.)

In the kitchen, I took a chair at the table and watched as she struggled to make tea with one hand, her hand with the cast at her side, wrapped in another pretty fabric.

“Let me help you with that,” I said, laughing.

“No, I've got it. Drink your juice.”

The glass of organic orange juice she had placed on the table in front of me glowed in the warm December morning light. And then Annika came over, placed our mugs of tea on the table, and squatted next to me, resting her hand on my thigh.

“I had a lovely time last night,” she said sweetly. I braced myself for the follow-up letdown, expecting her to say, “But I'm straight.” Instead she just stayed there looking up at me, smiling. And so I smiled back.

“Me, too.”

As I was applying my makeup in the bathroom, Annika came in and wrapped her arms around my waist from behind.

“I want to watch you make your eyes.”

I proceeded to apply my graphite eye shadow and jet-black liner as she watched in the mirror, resting her chin on my shoulder.

“This is all you do for the smoky look?” Annika asked. “I was taught to always wear mascara with eye shadow.”

“No, it's better without,” I said, turning around to face her. “Close your eyes.”

I put a faint layer of shadow on her lids and handed her the liner to apply herself, for fear of poking her eye out.

“Yes,” she said, assessing herself in the mirror. “But I think I need mascara. I have no eyelashes.”

“Oh stop,” I said, grabbing her. “It looks great.”

“It looks better on you.” She pinched my cheek and wriggled away.

“I need to get dressed for work. Wait for me and we will take the train together.” Everything Annika said sounded more like an order than a request. I loved it.

I went back into the kitchen and starting doing her dishes. There was quite a big pile. It must have taken her twice as long as usual to wash them with the cast on.

“Stop that!” she yelled from her bedroom.

“Too late!”

It felt nice to do her dishes for her. If she had been a man, washing the dishes might have taken on a whole different meaning. I know myself. I would have thought too much
about it. I'm doing his dishes. Does this mean I am falling into some subordinate domestic role? But he's got a broken hand. It's a nice thing to do. But I don't want to set some sort of precedent. And so on. With Annika, I didn't think at all. I just dried each plate with her retro Niagara Falls dish towel and inspected the pictures taped to her refrigerator: friends, family, and several postcards from tropical places. A girl after my own (cold hands) warm heart.

She emerged from her room covered head to toe in hues of burgundy and brown. On the way to the front door, she slipped into her bulky UGG boots and topped off her outfit with a signature hand-knit hat from her clothing line.

“Pick one,” she said, holding the basket in front of me.

“Really?”

“I think this one will look super cute on you.” She handed me a beige hat with an embroidered flower.

“Wow, thank you. Are you sure?”

“You did my dishes, Elena. Yes I am sure.”

I leaned in to kiss her as she was reaching for her keys. It was one of those awkward moments where you realize halfway into it that your timing is off, but it's too late to turn back. She looked up just when my lips were about to land on hers. We kissed for a brief moment, but it was weird the way daytime kisses can sometimes be, even with people you've been dating for years. One person is prepared for it, while the other is wondering where their cell phone is.

On the subway, she placed her hand on my thigh again, which I found very brave for a straight girl.
Maybe it's because she's European,
I thought as I looked around. My fear of homophobic people had become habitual over the years. I wish I could say I was one of those people who say “Fuck it” and let people stare if they want to. But I had grown very afraid of hate. I'd had enough friends beaten up, even in such progressive places as San Francisco and New York, to warrant the concern I carried everywhere like a handbag.

The woman across from us was zoning out in our direction, but otherwise the people of New York were reading their papers and fondling their phones. No one cared that two women had just woken up in the same bed, totally smitten with each other. I put my hand on Annika's.

“Here,” she said, handing me a card. “This is my phone number. The next stop is mine.”

I took the card and put it in my coat pocket next to the tea bag tag I'd taken from her kitchen. I wanted to buy the same cardamom Ceylon so that I could start every day just as deliciously. Then I took out a pen, wrote my number on her cast, and drew a heart around it. I am such a dork.

As the train screeched into Times Square, she leaned over and kissed me on the cheek. I squeezed her hand and held onto it as she attempted to exit.

“Ah!” she yelped, laughing and tugging away from me. She jumped out the door just as it was closing. I smiled,
pulled out my cell phone, crossed my legs, and pressed “play” on the
Wheel of Fortune
game I'd downloaded earlier in the week. A message popped up:

“Attention: Your free trial will expire in 1 day(s).”

I
t was just as well that a business trip took me to L.A. to train at our West Coast office, because it stopped me from willing Annika to call. It had been three weeks since I'd left her a voice mail. When I hadn't received a call back, I'd sent an email as well. And when two more days passed with no response, I cursed myself for sending it. With not one but two methods of follow-up floating out there in limbo, there was no room for an ounce of doubt. I was being dissed.

I was really in for it. I already knew I didn't know much about men. But women? Women at least called back. I resisted the urge to contact our mutual friend, the party host. As shocked as I was not to hear back from Annika, the answer was crystal clear. I could already hear my friend's voice on the other end of the line: “Elena, what did you think would
happen? Annika is straight.” I should not have been so surprised, but I was. She'd been so sweet with me, and so present. There was the minor detail of her sexual orientation, but I'd seen greater obstacles overcome. My technologically inept father had learned how to use email. Why couldn't I have a straight girlfriend?

I conferred with Megan during lunch one day, guessing she'd have a more accurate perspective than Miss Lez. Jabbing at our chopped salads at a little restaurant near the office, I recounted the story of meeting Annika and going back to her house. I made sure to include all the pertinent details, like how sweet she had been the morning after and how she had left me her phone number.

“So what happened, Meg? Did she get scared?”

“Girl, there are so many possible answers. But yes, she probably freaked out.”

“Tell me this then. If you suddenly found yourself interested in a woman, what would you do?” I asked.

“Well, I've had crushes here and there, like when I found myself getting way too frequent haircuts from my hot Shane look-alike hairdresser.”

“Shane? Like from
The L Word
Shane?”

“Yeah.”

“You watch that show?”

“Oh yeah. All my friends watch it, too, and we would all turn for Shane. Even my mom has a crush on her.”

“Your mom watches it, too?”

“Anyway, yes, I can find other women attractive, and I might even do something if I were drunk enough. But a kiss at the back of a bar is a far cry from taking a woman to a wedding as my date. I don't think I'm cut out for that.”